We once had a dog named Edgar whose whole raison d’ etre was to kick cat ass.

Unfortunately, we also had two cats: Peanut Butter and Mozart.

Peanut Butter was a cat-hater’s cat. He had all the swagger of John Wayne, and the cool detachment of Humphrey Bogart. Tail up, shoulders back, when he sauntered into the kitchen, he owned the joint.

What I loved about Peanut Butter was the way he managed the dog. From the get go, he refused to take his guff. All that lunging, gnawing, growling, humping, sniffing ridiculousness he met with a stifled yawn.

Peanut Butter was so unconcerned, so self-possessed, he slept in Ed’s crate and ate out of his bowl. For a long time this behavior confused the dog. Eventually the two napped on the couch side by side.

Mozart, on the other hand, skulked through the house as if expecting trouble. Quivering, cowering, mewling, Edgar could smell that cat’s fear with his nose glued shut.

It should come as no surprise that Mozart got his lights punched out whenever he dared to tip-toe past the kitchen door. Simply put,  Mo was a cat that begged a beat down.

I learned a lot from watching how those two cats comported themselves in the world. I saw how one demeanor inspired respect, the other, abuse. The reaction they got from the very same dog was based solely on their expectations.

I have no trouble spotting the Peanut Butter and Mozarts of this world . Right now, for instance, sitting on an airplane, heading home from a trip.

The young lady behind me. Chatting to the stranger next to her. Total Peanut Butter. “You from Maine? I’m from Minneapolis.  I hear the whole state is without power. This ought to be an amusing business trip.” I don’t have to turn around to know that she’s a confident, vibrant woman who’s got it going on.

The big guy in front of me.  Definitely a Mozart. Telling the two young girls he’s just squeezed past, “Looks like you won the lottery. Big guy. Little chair. Sorry.”  I know what he’s thinking. Better to put himself down first, rather than face the disdainful body language.

I used to catch myself operating like Mozart. Entering a difficult conversation with my teenaged kids, for instance. Justifying my thought process, negotiating away my position, apologizing for my needs. 

Expecting confrontation, a heated argument, an emotional ass kicking of sorts. Not surprisingly, that’s generally what I got.

I learned that, when I enter a room full of strangers, I have to remind myself to be Peanut Butter. I have to make the conscious decision to own the space, to expect interactions to go the way I’d like. I have to throw my shoulders back, put on a smile, and reach out expecting that folks are going to dig my style.

An associate of mine taught me the phrase, “Game recognize game.” He insisted that I not correct the grammar and say, “Game recognizes game,” because half the power gets lost. The way he told it, he could sit in a room full of strangers and identify the rising stars (aka the Peanut Butters) because they know how to play the game and have that vibe. Those are the people he gravitates towards, as opposed to the insecure Mozarts of the world. I watch him sort folks into game vs. no game, and it fascinates me to no end.

Book readers also recognize authors who take their work and themselves seriously. Who mean to go places. Who invest in themselves. Who have the confidence to express their ideas and shape their industry. Who got game. They can tell by the quality of the book— a REAL book as opposed to a starter Business Card book—and the willingness of the author to promote it. To leverage it.

I’m betting you can too.

Maybe you self identify as a Mozart—I know I once did. But you can learn to be a Peanut Butter. It starts with choosing to have game. And operating accordingly.